Faded
by strawberriez8800
Summary: Thomas/Jimmy - Pray hard, darling.


_Note: Jimmy gets drafted to fight in WW2. I made myself cry writing this. Why do I do this to myself?_**  
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_1 July, 1940_

In his dream, Jimmy was home.

It was not the home he had grown up in. It was not the home where he had been since birth, laughing and playing with scrapped toys on the floor while his mother chastised him for messing up the vicinity. It was not the home where his father had returned to every evening from the local factory.

No, it was the home he shared with Thomas—a little cottage in the country just beyond Downton, secluded and safe, accompanied by a mild scenery of the open field with a forest off to one side. The stream of water cruising along the creek was a welcome addition to the landscape, the fish carried along by the gentle current, heading down a meandering path to the sea.

Inside the house, Thomas sat by fireplace, reading the day's paper with a cigarette dangling from one hand. Jimmy stopped short. There was something off about Thomas; there was more grey in his hair than Jimmy remembered, more lines around his eyes and mouth than there were in real life. His posture was hunched, like his own weight was almost too much to bear without support. The hand with the cigarette shook a little as he held the fag to his lips. Jimmy's throat tightened at the folds and wrinkles on his fingers, once so smooth and immaculate—

"Thomas?" He said, yearning to step closer and pull Thomas into his arms.

He tried to take a step, but there was a strange force pinning him down in an invisible, relentless grip. Hysteria churned in his gut. His heart rate escalated, sending blood rushing in his ears, throat, wrists. He glanced around wildly, eyes drinking in the vagueness of the vicinity. Random bursts of detail flared in his vision like neon signs—the framed photographs arranged on the sun-bleached cabinet, the cutlery sitting neatly on the dining table.

Jimmy frowned at the single serve.

_Where's mine?_

There was an uncanny _neatness_ about the place that made Jimmy's skin crawl. His eyes darted towards the photo frames, trying to squint past light bouncing off the planes of glass. Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he strode forward towards the cabinet. The fact that he could move again barely registered in his mind as his hand closed around an oak-framed photograph.

He saw himself, clad in military uniform, staring back at him from the faded picture, splashed in greyscale tones. His fingers brushed against a scratchy texture at the back of the frame, and he turned it around, only to see a folded piece of telegram stuck against the back, the words WAR OFFICE stamped across the front. The rest of the print blurred into the back of his mind—

And then it hit him: the single serve of food on the table, the absence of Jimmy's usual mess, the sheer_loneliness _of their home—

"No, no, _no_…" His knees gave away and he collapsed onto the wooden floor. Even the sound was hollow, too hollow—

Jimmy woke with a violent start, his heart racing in his throat. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths as he sat up. He gripped his head with trembling hands, resting his forehead against drawn-up knees. His hair clung to his skin in damp locks. He shivered.

"Jimmy?" Thomas said, voice hoarse from sleep. The slow shuffle of movements made the bed creak in protest, and Jimmy felt an arm curl around him. "Hey, everything's going to be alright." He kissed Jimmy's sweat-slicked shoulder.

"I-I had this d-dream that…" Jimmy took a deep breath. "I died, Thomas, and you were left _alone_." The tears that had been pooling in his eyes began to run down his cheeks. He wiped them away with a savage brush of knuckles.

Thomas's palm massaged Jimmy's back in soft, comforting circles. "It was just a dream," he said quietly, though Jimmy could hear his voice falter a little.

Gently, Jimmy brought Thomas's hand into his, fingers running over the dark hair on Thomas's forearm, the ridge of bone on his wrist. He traced the lines weaving across Thomas's long fingers, skimming over the folds that came with age—

"Where's all the time gone?" He said as he looked at Thomas. He was suddenly aware, _too _aware of their own mortality, of the unyielding fact that _time_, in the end, would outlive everything else in the world. "It feels like we'd just moved in a month ago."

Thomas chuckled, a certain melancholy clinging around the seams. "I suppose time flies when you're enjoying life," he said, and kissed Jimmy on the forehead. He pulled back with a wry smile. "Blimey, that sounded a little too soppy for men our age."

Jimmy stared at him, bringing up his thumb to brush across Thomas's cheekbone. "I love you," he said, suddenly overwhelmed. "I love you, Thomas. Don't you ever forget that, not even if I—"

"Shh," Thomas murmured. "I love you too, Jimmy. I love you too." He brought Jimmy's head to rest on his shoulder, fingers weaving through his hair. They stayed like that for a long moment, and Jimmy found himself nodding off when Thomas said, "Now why don't we go back to sleep? You'll need all the rest you can get tomorrow."

Jimmy swallowed. "You're right." He lied down onto the bed slowly, and pulled the coverlet over the both of them, the mattress dipping beneath their weight. His eyelids were starting to feel heavy. "Goodnight."

Silence lingered in the air, a prelude of dreams to come. Jimmy wasn't sure if Thomas replied, but he thought he heard a quiet breath of 'goodnight'—and sleep came and drew him into the depths of unconsciousness.

_-x-_

The siren wailed across the station, drowning out the forlorn sounds of families bidding farewells. There were children clinging to their fathers with the naivety of childhood, mothers hugging their sons with salt-streaked faces, wives kissing their husbands with the promise of love. There were also the lone wolves—men who lingered without family or acquaintances, or perhaps they were still waiting for their loved ones to show up.

"Have you packed everything?" Thomas said, fidgeting with an unlit cigarette.

Jimmy looked up at him and rolled his eyes. "I'm not off on a camping trip, Thomas. Besides, it's not as if we could go all the way _back _just because I forgot something," he said, irritation creeping into his voice. He clenched his jaw, glaring at the dust-streaked wall behind Thomas. Anger gripped within him and he suddenly wanted to scream at the world, at the utter injustice of it all. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath instead.

"I'll miss you," Thomas said. The severe calmness of his voice suggested that he was, in fact, actually trying his best to sound nonchalant. Jimmy's heart ached. "And I'll probably send enough letters to drown the war office, so make sure you read every one of them."

Jimmy said nothing as his eyes trailed back to Thomas's face. He stood still, breath held in his chest, afraid that he might cry, or scream, or run if he even moved a muscle. Thomas stepped forward, arms extended as if to embrace him, and Jimmy recoiled. "No," he said, glancing around them.

Thomas sighed. "No one's going to care if—"

Another round of siren blasted through the air in short bursts, urging for the passengers to come aboard. The engines roared and grinded in the backdrop, stirring up a sense of urgency that had men hasten up like obedient cattle.

"I'll see you," Jimmy said. "Don't smoke too much, alright? I'll kill you if you die of lung cancer before I return." He ignored the incongruity of his words as he shifted on his feet. He was terrible at goodbyes.

Thomas almost laughed then, about to say something when Jimmy pressed forward and kissed him on the mouth, their chapped lips brushing in a chaste touch. A moment later, Jimmy wrenched away and rushed towards the entrance of a car, pushing his way in without another look at Thomas. He could feel his windpipe closing up as he took a seat by the dew-coated window, and he swallowed down the lump at the back of his throat. He wiped away the moisture with his sleeve, eyes searching for Thomas amidst the lingering crowd—but there was no sign of him.

Panic surged within Jimmy, running hot in his veins as he fought to look harder. Thomas _had _to be there, somewhere—why wouldn't those stupid weeping women move _out _of the way?

The train lurched into motion, and Thomas was still nowhere in sight.

_Where are you?!_

And Jimmy saw him, half-hidden behind the wave of onlookers. He breathed a sigh of relief until he realized that—

_Oh god, he's crying. Oh god, oh god—_

Jimmy scrambled onto his feet and groped for the door that was already sealed shut. _"Let me out!" _he shouted, pounding on the frame in wild thrashes. He yanked on the handle, but it was locked and no amount of force would make it budge. The train was gradually accelerating and there was not enough time— _"Let me out let me out let me out!" _he screamed. He could no longer see straight; his vision was wet and foggy and it was so bloody _annoying_ because he needed to _see—_

There were hands grabbing at Jimmy and pulling him back. He struggled like a caged beast, yelling for them to _get their hands off him_ because he needed to get to Thomas, to dry the tears on his face because he couldn't _bear _the thought of Thomas crying over him—

It was too late, however, because the landscape was already rushing by in a blur as the locomotive throttled into full speed. Jimmy sank onto the floor, but somebody helped him back onto his feet. He stumbled back to his seat with a detached numbness, burying his face in his hands. A few beats later, he drew a fag from his pocket and lit it with a shaky hand.

He inhaled deeply, leaning back against the padded seat. He let out a jet of smoke through his mouth, filling the car with the scent of Thomas Barrow's favourite cigar. He closed his eyes and took another drag—and he could almost, _almost _fool himself into thinking that Thomas was right beside him—

—and the world spun away beneath his feet.


End file.
